no mercy for a merciless one
by Martina
Summary: X-over with La Femme Nikita. Chloe, a former student of MacLeod, is now faced with the greatest task of all: growing up. Chapter 7 is up!!
1. To rebel or not to rebel, that is the qu...

Disclaimer: It's very simple, boys and girls. If you recognize them, they ain't mine. Chloe Grisham Young, however, totally is.  
  
AN: The first chapter takes place entirely within the universe of Highlander: the series. Dunno about place in the time line. Undecided I guess. In future chapters, should those eventually get written, we will move house into the LFN universe. I'll try and explain things as simply as possible for those of you who have no prior knowledge of that show. I did not get this beta'd. Enjoy, and please please please, as this is my first fanfic, do me the honour of R&R-ing… (  
  
  
  
"I'm too young for you, you said so yourself."  
  
"That was five years ago, Chloe. Things change, people change, you sure did!"  
  
"No, I didn't. My age changed, a stupid number. If you thought I was immature then, I still will be."  
  
"What makes you so sure of that? You're 24 now, you were 19 then. It's not like you'll be a teenager forever."  
  
"Oh, but that's just it. I will be. Physically, of course, but that's not what I'm talking about. I mean the whole 'immature' teenager routine. That's me. The self-centred no-one-can-understand-the-depths-of-me-cause-my- thoughts-and-my-personality-are-so-totally-unique thing, the it's-me- against-the-big-bad-world-and-if-I-wanna-have-misgivings-about-that-ain't- none-of-you-gonna-stop-me routine. It fits me like a glove, Mac. It's comfortable, it's uncomplicated."  
  
"And it will keep you from ever really looking at anything from someone else's point of view. It will keep you from having to take responsibility for your actions, and from achieving real intimacy with another human being."  
  
"Intimacy, schmintimacy, I don't need that shit. Don't try and act the developmental psychologist with me, Mac, cause it'll only serve to prove my point, thank you very much."  
  
"So that's it then… you'll simply refuse to grow up?"  
  
"If that's what it takes, yes. I don't want to let go of the only thing that still connects me with my life before this whole immortal-mumbojumbo kicked in."  
  
"You know that's not the answer. Clinging to it will not make it come back. That's not the way it works."  
  
"I don't care how 'it' does or does not work, can't you just accept that? Please, save me the older-and-wiser routine. You may have been my teacher once, but you're not anymore."  
  
"I see, so what I say doesn't matter anymore either. Why do I get the feeling you're acting the wilful teenager just to spite me for some reason?"  
  
"Spite you? Hello! This is not about you!"  
  
At this point they both threw their hands up in the air in a gesture of pure exasperation, both most likely contemplating how insufferable the other was being.  
  
Chloe, perched on one of the stools at the bar, dug into her packet of cigarettes and hung one in a corner of her mouth while fidgeting with her lighter. Her bright red hair, fashioned in an exuberant variation of the out-of-bed look, rivalled the flames that shot from her eyes in MacLeod's direction. Said Highlander, slouched gracelessly in the booth opposite Chloe, was tiredly running his hands through his hair, trying to keep himself together.  
  
Five years prior, he had felt very much attracted to Chloe, his then-time student. She had not hidden the fact that she felt the same way. When she had tried to put these feelings into actions, he had gently discouraged her, admonishing that she was really too young, and when that didn't ring home, he had played his I'm-your-teacher-you're-my-student-this-would-not- be-right trump card. It had been only a minor feat of self-control on his part. He had truly meant what he said, and hoped all the while that some day things would be different.  
  
Then, circumstances had forced MacLeod to remove to France, his home away from home, and leave Chloe in Methos' care and tutelage. As far as she was concerned, it had done her a world of good. Upon finally returning to Seacouver, he, at first, would have agreed. He admired her for what she'd become: a strong-minded, outspoken young lady, with a style to match and enhance her natural beauty instead of hide it like before, and a skilled swordswoman. To assume that they could pick up where they left off was a great mistake on his part.  
  
It was Chloe's prerogative, really her way of thinking, to disagree with whatever someone else posed as true and right, always had been. In their short time together as student and teacher, less than a year, MacLeod had filed this away under Richie-like ways to deal with becoming immortal. Methos, on the other hand, had picked up more accurately on this juvenile quirk of hers, and actually nurtured and encouraged it. As a character trait, it is quite consistent with what Chloe so eloquently described as the 'teenager routine', so she embraced the whole of it as a life style, under the – in its own right pretty understandable – guise of not wishing to let go of that lovely childhood non-responsibility. Following Methos' powerful example, the only thing she wanted to be held responsible for was her own survival. Also, she wanted desperately to remain in the adolescent psychosocial moratorium of not making any definite choices yet and being pinned down on them, and she wanted to rebel against those who thought they knew better, i.e. Duncan MacLeod.  
  
After a pleasant evening of drinking, laughing and general catching-up at Joe's bar, MacLeod, feeling the old attraction re-kindled, had tried to kiss her, to which the above heated argument had ensued.  
  
After a long awkward pause, Chloe took another deep drag of her cigarette, and continued:  
  
"No, it's not about you. But you always did think it was, didn't you?"  
  
MacLeod sighed deeply, beginning to seriously lose his patience and wondering what he was still doing there. "You're wrong, Chloe. You do hold it against me that I said there couldn't be anything between us five years ago. And silly me, looking at you and talking to you, I thought you'd grown up, that the age difference didn't have to be an issue anymore. Believe it or not, I really did care about you back then, in more than a protective father-figure sort of way. I still do. But I guess I was wrong about you."  
  
"Gee, ya think?" she replied sarcastically, stubbing out her cigarette furiously as if it was the culprit of some great evil. "You know, I don't really care what you think of me. You're not in my life anymore. You left." She added that last sentence softly, almost sadly. Before MacLeod had a chance to make a reply, she'd already untangled her long limbs from the legs of the barstool, shrugged on her coat with the Spanish rapier neatly tucked away inside as she'd been taught, and swayed her way out the door.  
  
Let him fester in it, she mused. Serves him right, too. Who the hell does he think he is anyway.  
  
The night air was cool and crisp, the noise of the city all but completely silenced. The mood she was in inclined her more towards walking the ten blocks to her apartment than trying to find a taxi. So she set off, in no particular hurry.  
  
Only a couple of blocks down the road, the familiar buzzing sensation crept into her skull, disturbing her contemplations. "This is not what I need right now," she thought aloud. "Whoever you are, piss off! I'm not in the mood for horsing around."  
  
"Tsk tsk tsk…" someone tsk-ed at her from inside the shadows in the alleyway to her left. "You should never admit that, little girl. Why give your opponent the advantage of knowing that your heart will not be in the fight?" The voice was low and musical, tinted with a Spanish accent, almost pleasant if not for its menacing tone.  
  
"If it's an advantage, what are you complaining about?" Chloe quipped, feeling almost as self-assured as she had made it sound. "I'm Chloe Grisham Young, and we don't have to do this."  
  
"Eduardo Reyes, and yes we do," was the sing-song reply, as he moved his huge frame out of the shadows. He stood about 6'8'' tall and had forearms the size of Chloe's thighs. He held his sword loosely by his side and a sardonic grin plastered firmly on his face, not seeming too worried at all. Chloe shrugged out of her coat and pulled the rapier from its sheath, mentally running down the list of 'dirty tricks feeble women could use when seriously outmatched' that Methos had taught her. She'd always wondered where he had learned them.  
  
"Didn't your madre ever tell you to pick on someone your own size?"  
  
He grinned even wider as they began circling each other. Chloe was reasonably certain that she at least wouldn't make too much of an idiot of herself. She had neither MacLeod's height, experience, nor sheer strength, but she'd managed to level him on the mat at least half the times they had sparred together in the last few days. Of course, she realized all too well that the practice mat and the real thing were worlds apart.  
  
Waiting for fate to lead the way was not her style, so she made the first move. She swung in with a well-calculated blow aimed at the giant's right shoulder. He parried effortlessly and countered with a low swing towards her abdomen. Chloe realized she couldn't get her sword around in time to parry, so jumped back to avoid literally spilling her guts in the second move of the fight. This manoeuvre worked greatly to her advantage, because in the split second it took Reyes to jump forward to close the gap, she managed to sink down on her hunches, extend a leg and twist around, sweeping his legs out from underneath him. His momentum carried him neatly through into a collection of trashcans. He quickly picked himself up out of the garbage and glared at Chloe, looking at the same time surprised and very, very angry. She knew at that moment that if she played her cards right, she'd already won the fight. She'd succeeded in throwing her opponent off balance, literally and figuratively, and, no less important, in pissing him off. Reyes charged in ferociously. His great skill kept him in the fight still longer than Chloe had expected. But the harder he tried not to miss, the more agilely she dodged his blows until, finally, the perfect opening presented itself. His swings were becoming wider as he was trying to put more sheer force and speed into them. His sword arm was far extended to the left in front of his body, readying for a backhanded blow, when Chloe thrust forward and impaled her sword deeply in his abdomen. He looked down in shock and disbelief at the hilt of her sword sticking out of his body. She pulled it free and raised it above her head for the final blow.  
  
"You shouldn't have called me 'little girl', muchacho." Then it was done.  
  
This was only Chloe's second quickening. It would have surprised Methos or MacLeod or any one looking on with any knowledge of the Game that she, so young and inexperienced a one, could have killed so readily and almost thoughtlessly. In her case, her youth was exactly what allowed her to do so. Just as a baby who is thrown in the water will swim without ever having learnt how, so will a child readily and thoughtlessly apply that basic principle of justice: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. What you do to me, I will, given the chance, do to you. Or in this case: what you threaten to do to me, I will, given the chance, do to you. Reyes had sealed his death warrant with the words 'yes we do.' Mercy for a merciless one was something Chloe was incapable of. She knew only absolutely loyalty towards someone like Methos, who had never hurt her in any way, and only a child's innocent cruelty towards someone like Reyes.  
  
When the last spark of Reyes' quickening had died out, she scrambled to her feet, picked up her sword and sauntered up and down the alleyway, slightly disorientated and not quite sure what to do next. The last time, Methos had been there with her to make sure the scene was left as sterile and clue- free as possible. What they did, however inevitable within the Game, was still murder in the eyes of society.  
  
She stopped to once more look down at Reyes' headless form, when suddenly a sharp pain shot into her neck. She reached back to pull out a small dart. "What the…" she started. Then all went blank. 


	2. To rebel then

It was cold in the room, was the first thing she noticed when the mists of painfully induced inebriation were finally beginning to lift, terribly cold. And that chair was awfully uncomfortable. Should she dare open her eyes? Why not, perhaps there'd be someone there she could give a piece of her mind.  
  
It had never cost her such an effort before to wrench her lids apart. She wanted to lift a hand up to rub her eyes, and found that she couldn't. She looked down, and could just barely make out through the blur that her arms were fastened to the chair by means of an evil-looking metal contraption. But her immortal constitution did not allow her to feel totally hammered for very long, and she was soon clear-eyedly surveying the bare white room in which she was obviously being held prisoner.  
  
"Hello!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "I don't like these bracelets! One of you fucking jackasses come and undo them at once!"  
  
The metal startrekkish doors opposite Chloe slid apart to admit entrance to a wickedly grinning but otherwise sophisticated-looking white-haired gentleman. His icy eyes served her a look of undisguised appraisal, and she returned the gesture.  
  
"Ah, there you are, Jeeves," she quipped. "Wanna explain what I'm fucking doing here?"  
  
"First of all, Chloe, congratulations," he replied, successfully ignoring both the insult and the language.  
  
"Oh goody," she retorted, rolling her eyes for drama's sake. "Do I dare ask for what?"  
  
"You were drugged, of course, to facilitate your transportation here. The dose was ample to have levelled a large horse for six or seven hours, but our team had to administer the drug an other three times for you to remain properly sedated. You have a strong constitution and I admire that," he said as he stalked around the room with his hands in his pockets.  
  
"Cut the chitchat gramps. What is this place and why am I in it?"  
  
He chuckled and came to a stop facing her. "You are in Section 1, a high- level covert anti-terrorist organization."  
  
"And?" she queried, eyeing him up and down, unimpressed.  
  
"You killed a man last night, Eduardo Reyes, he was on our list of subjects to be cancelled. When our team had tracked him down and arrived on the scene, the job had already been done by you. Why you did it, and why with a sword of all weapons – so grotesque, really - we don't know, and mind you we don't like admitting there is anything we don't know, but it seemed reason enough to us to recruit you as a new operative in our organization. Therefore," he concluded with a smug smile on his face, "welcome to Section 1."  
  
Chloe should by this time have been panicking, but was feeling more irritated than scared.  
  
"Follow me," said the white-haired man, whose designation in section was 'Operations', as he hit a key hidden in the wall that caused Chloe's bonds to spring open. "We will begin your training immediately."  
  
Chloe stiffly worked her way up out of the chair. "You know, chief, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll pass. I liked my old life just fine, so if you'll point me to the nearest exit…"  
  
He turned around in the door frame and grinned widely. "I'm afraid it doesn't work that way around here. You will follow me."  
  
"You're kidding right?" Chloe chuckled, inwardly annoyed that the phrase 'it doesn't work that way' was recurring so frequently in her life lately. "You're gonna walk out of here with your back to me? Talk about misplaced trust!"  
  
Operations simply turned and exited the room. Chloe darted out in pursuit as swiftly as her stiff limbs would allow, and was startled the wits out of by the appearance of two operatives, clad in black, on either side of the doorframe.  
  
"Oh," she sighed, as the two armed men fell in behind her.  
  
Chloe was led through a clutter of corridors, all equally naked and impersonal and eventually into a large hall with windows and walkways above, a computer area to the left and something resembling a conference area to the right. There were more so-called operatives in this hall, some seated at work stations, some walking around or quietly conversing with each other.  
  
"Nikita, I need to speak with you." Operations signalled a tall young woman. She approached with a walk that reminded Chloe of a candidate in a beauty pageant. She had her medium length blond hair twisted and tied together at the nape of her neck and was wearing a black new-fangled sort of outfit that Chloe thought to actually look rather elegant on her.  
  
"This is Chloe," started Operations, pointing at her. "I'm assigning you as her instructor. Find her some quarters and begin her training immediately. Oh and Nikita," he added before taking his leave, "teach her some manners will you. She has a foul mouth and a bad attitude, and I appreciate neither."  
  
"Yes sir," answered Nikita, sounding anything but submissive. Then they were left alone together.  
  
"I'm Nikita," she said, turning to Chloe. "I guess I'll be your instructor."  
  
"Yes, I'd gathered as much. Say, are you an operative-person-thingy?"  
  
"Yes I am."  
  
"Care to enlighten me as to what that means?"  
  
Nikita sighed. "Section 1 is an anti-terrorist organization. Operatives perform missions that serve this purpose."  
  
"Exterminate the bad guys, rid the world of the putrid stench of their evil presence sorta thing?"  
  
"Something like that…" answered Nikita, almost smiling this time.  
  
"Cool. By the way, Xena, what's the date and what time is it?"  
  
"That is of no concern to you right now," she stated flatly.  
  
"It is if I'm gonna tell you to pretty please give me back my smokes because it's been so and so long since I've had one."  
  
This actually elicited a chuckle from Nikita. "There's to be no smoking on these premises," she admonished. "Follow me."  
  
"Again with the following… What am I, a duckling?"  
  
Chloe followed her brand-new instructor back through the maze of corridors, trying to copy her walk and all the while internally sulking over the loss of her cigarettes. That she was cut off from her life, her friends, that she had lost her sword and was basically in a shit-load of trouble barely seemed to bother her anymore. She had heard the words 'quarters', 'instructor' and 'anti-terrorist' and seen a bunch of people who all looked annoyingly sure they'd get their own way. To her, this meant as much as that she'd be safe enough – for an immortal anyway – and would get to do cool stuff. An adventurous holiday of sorts.  
  
Nikita stopped at one of the doors and Chloe, caught up as she was in trying to walk like a beauty pageant candidate meets waterfowl, nearly bumped into her. The door slid open and Nikita announced: "This will be your room."  
  
"Groovy," Chloe purred, and sauntered in to examine the place.  
  
Nikita gave her a very peculiar look. Chloe noticed. "What?"  
  
"I've never heard a new recruit call her quarters 'groovy'. In fact, I never saw a new recruit making so little fuss about having to be here. How come?"  
  
"To ask the question is to answer it. You just said it: I have to be here. Chucking a tantrum won't make that go away, will it? So why not just make the best of things."  
  
Nikita leaned against the doorframe and continued to look at Chloe appraisingly. "As healthy an attitude as that is, I still don't get it. You were brought here of all places for god knows what reasons, and you're fine with it?"  
  
Chloe chuckled. "I doubt god knows the reasons, but I do. Mr Stick-up-the- ass explained it to me. I killed a guy y'all thought needed exactly that. And who else but happened to be there to catch me red-handed, literally. This is what I get as a token of gratitude. Funny way of recruiting your live-stock if you ask me, though."  
  
"Who did you kill then?"  
  
"You mean they didn't tell you?" replied Chloe absent-mindedly, running a finger over one of the few pieces of furnishing to check for dust.  
  
"No."  
  
"Eduardo Reyes. Big-ass fucker he was." She looked Nikita square in the eyes. "But I cut his greasy head off with a neat little sword."  
  
Nikita shuddered involuntarily at the emotionless look on Chloe's face. Not even Michael, her co-operative and publicly secret lover, renowned for his blank stares, could have pulled that one off. That girl will fit in much too well around here, she thought.  
  
"Come on, we have a lot of work to do."  
  
"Hang on hang on hang on…" Chloe stopped her from exiting the room.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"This time, I'm gonna walk next to you. I don't appreciate being treated like something that might as well have a leash on it."  
  
Nikita moaned inwardly at the outlook of spending the next few months working closely together with this girl, as she set off once more down the corridor, with Chloe by her elbow.  
  
"You know," Chloe ranted chipperly, "for a second back there I thought Jeeves was actually going to use the phrase 'you will be assimilated, resistance is futile'."  
  
"Huh?" replied Nikita intelligently.  
  
"Never mind, I don't suppose you people watch a lot of TV around here…" 


	3. Meet Section

In the next two months Chloe was crash-coursed in everything a Section 1 operative might need to know, on and off mission: man-to-man combat, tactics, weapons, the use of Section's many high-tech gadgets, down to the correct and most straight-forward way for operatives to convey intel to each other. It was assumed the rest could only be learned through experience.  
  
A gruelling fifteen-hour daily schedule of work-outs and simulations quickly brought Chloe to the realization that this was not a summer holiday, but dead serious business. She grew increasingly quiet and pensive, though no less headstrong and argumentative in her ways when the occasion called for it.  
  
One of these occasions announced itself when Operations refused to let her leave the compound to go shopping with Nikita. All operatives were granted this and other privileges to some extent. Some even lived 'on the outside', like Michael and Nikita, who had apartments in the city nearby.  
  
"You're not an operative yet, Chloe, you're still in training. You haven't earned any privileges whatsoever. In fact, you've managed to make yourself more of a nuisance than useful."  
  
"And who's to blame for that, huh, Jeeves? What's a girl to do when you don't ever give me a break?"  
  
Operations put both his hands up to his head and weaved his fingers through his hair, a thing he was extremely rarely known to do. "For the umpteenth time, don't call me Jeeves. I am called Operations, and that should be Mister Operations to you. Now," he continued after a short pause, "my decision is final. You're not going out."  
  
"But I need to buy stuff…" Chloe whined as pathetically as she could.  
  
"Then get Nikita to buy it for you. Besides, I don't see what you could so desperately need to shop for. Section has provided you with an entire wardrobe."  
  
"Which is exactly the point! No offence, but whoever bought that shit for me must have been colourblind."  
  
"What is it that you want then?" queried Operations, somewhat puzzled because everything in the wardrobe he'd issued Chloe was black.  
  
"Well, pyjamas, for starters."  
  
"Pyjamas?"  
  
"U-huh. Floppy flannel ones in really bright colours."  
  
"Why in bright colours?" he asked tiredly, already anticipating that the answer would make little or no sense.  
  
"Cause they make for Technicolor dreams," Chloe stated with a straight face.  
  
Five minutes later, Section's COM could see her skipping out of Operations' office and up to Nikita. "Come on, we're going shopping," she sang.  
  
Nikita's jaw dropped involuntarily.  
  
Half an hour later they were strolling at ease down a mildly crowded shopping street, arguing over whether or not Chloe should get to buy a packet of cigarettes.  
  
Over the last few weeks the two had actually become rather good friends, for whatever 'friendship' meant in a place like Section. Chloe admired Nikita's strength of character, flair and elegance and wished she had Nikita's gift of pulling off a black leather outfit without looking slutty. Nikita in turn liked the girl's spirit, sense of humour and steadfast non- conformism, never guessing what was really behind it. She was however continually biting her nails over how her next stunt would go down with Operations. Nikita thought Chloe was in sore need of a big sister, and she might as well be it.  
  
"This money we are about to spend is my allowance, and I don't intend to let you waste it on the means to puff yourself to death."  
  
"Now you're beginning to sound like Ops."  
  
"Speaking of whom… I truly wish you'd stop pissing him off like that. It could end up being very bad for your health."  
  
"I'm not pissing him off, just playing a little. We have an understanding that way, Jeeves and I."  
  
"Oh yeah? Then why was he about to have you cancelled last week after you started a food fight in the mess hall?"  
  
"Firstly, I didn't start that. Well, not all by myself anyway. Walter helped. And secondly, was he?"  
  
"Yes," replied Nikita simply, focussing her attention on an attractive pair of shoes in a window.  
  
"Well?" Chloe pushed. "What stopped him?"  
  
"Madeline did," answered Nikita, turning back to Chloe.  
  
Madeline was Section 1's chief tactical advisor, second in command after Operations and a woman even more free of scruples than he. In short, the last person Chloe would have expected to take her part.  
  
"Why?" she cried, surprised.  
  
"Keep it down…" Nikita hissed.  
  
"Fine," Chloe hissed back, looking around furtively. "So what's the deal with Madeline? I didn't think she liked me that much."  
  
"Very perceptive," Nikita smiled sarcastically, before continuing in a more serious tone: "She has plans with you."  
  
"Oh? Now I'm intrigued," Chloe grinned. "What kind of plans?"  
  
"She has you in mind for a low priority intel mission."  
  
"Low priority? That's a bumber. After all this fuss and all these weeks of training I was hoping I'd get to do something important. So what will this mission be about?"  
  
"Search me," Nikita shrugged. "All I know is that Birkoff found something in a general sweep of the web that Operations and Madeline seem to think needs investigating. But it won't be for any time soon. My guess is they'll put you on a few field missions with me and Michael first before sending you out on your own."  
  
"Finally some action outside a simulator! And when will this be?"  
  
"Might be sooner than you think."  
  
Early the next morning. Chloe was still lounging on the large hard bed in her room, wearing floppy flannel pyjamas, reading a cheap romance novel and smoking a Lucky Strike after having sabotaged the fire alarm. All of these items she'd had to wrestle Nikita to the ground to buy. She closed the book, stubbed out the cigarette in her make-shift ashtray and hid the lot under her bed. She was expecting Michael to barge in any second, demanding to know why she was late for their scheduled sparring session. She smirked in anticipation. Michael was fun to mess with, exactly because he didn't put up with it. He didn't laugh at her smart-ass one-liners, didn't show annoyance over her teasing and not even on her account would he raise his soft voice above its usual barely audible whisper. He just told her to stop and meant it. Chloe liked that. It relaxed her. She tried her hardest to get on his nerves, and knew she would never succeed. This provided the sorely needed resting point and at the same time solid boundaries for her bouncy young mind.  
  
Instead of Michael, it was Madeline who was suddenly in the room.  
  
"Jeez Louise… Don't you people knock?" Chloe uttered, covering her breasts with the bra she had been just about to put on.  
  
"You're wanted in Briefing in five minutes," Madeline stated blankly, not a jot embarrassed.  
  
"See that little box in the wall?" Chloe pointed at a screen and some keys next to the door. "It's called intercom. You could have told me anything the hell you want through that."  
  
"You're going on your first mission today. I just thought you might like to be told in person," Madeline said, then turned and left.  
  
"How thoughtful," Chloe muttered.  
  
She arrived in Briefing fifteen minutes later, awaited by a nail biting Nikita, a finger tapping Madeline, a scowling Operations, a blank faced Michael and a fidgeting Birkoff.  
  
"Mornin' peoples," she greeted them chipperly.  
  
"Sit down," growled Operations. "Now!"  
  
For once, Chloe judged it wiser to refrain from further comment, and she took the only empty seat at the oblong table, between Nikita and Birkoff.  
  
Birkoff was Section's computer wiz. It was his job to gather intel and talk the operatives in the field through a mission from behind his computer, giving directions and warnings and such. The job was little eventful, and he liked it that way. Birkoff was the closest to Chloe in age, a little younger even. That made him the only person in Section who didn't consider himself in any position to preach to her, and therefore the only person against whom Chloe felt no need to rebel. He was in the habit of constantly wearing coloured shades, and Chloe had taken to wearing them too. The same colour on the same day.  
  
He smiled at her encouragingly and pressed her hand for a moment.  
  
"Our target…" Operations started, "… is Rainier Duchamp." He pressed a button on a small control he held in his hand and a virtual screen displaying a visual of Duchamp appeared above the black shiny surface of the table. "A former military man, he was a tactical advisor in the US army's Intelligence Service during the Gulf War. Though he kept a low profile, he is considered one of the greatest tactical minds alive." Madeline had a soft chuckle at this. "According to our intel, Red Cell is seeking to recruit him. We can't let that happen. Your mission will be to retrieve Duchamp from his home in France and bring him back to Section, alive. Our intel shows with ninety percent certainty that he has been brought inside one of Red Cell's bases for preliminary negotiations, a job interview if you will, less than two days ago. He may be able to provide us with valuable information. Red Cell will of course have people keeping an eye on him, possibly with the orders to shoot him if jeopardized. Details are on your panels. Your transport leaves in two hours. That will be all."  
  
The occupants of the table dispersed and routinely set about their preparations, leaving Chloe behind somewhat lost.  
  
Birkoff returned two seconds later with a contraption called a panel. "Come on, I'll show you how to use it and then take you to see Walter for the rest of your equipment."  
  
"Thank you, sweetheart," she cooed, draping her arm around his shoulder as they walked off. 


	4. On to plan W

Afternoon of the day after Eduardo Reyes' kicking the bucket, at MacLeod's loft.  
  
The Scot was busily dicing tomatoes, shredding lettuce etc. in preparation for a salad for his lunch. Just about to dig into a bunch of carrots, he felt the familiar 'buzzing' sensation. Not too worried, because he'd been expecting Chloe to come and talk to him all morning, he dug in to the carrots and merrily started chopping them.  
  
Right on cue, the grate of the elevator slid open and out stepped a grinning…  
  
"Methos?"  
  
"And a very good morning to you too," he greeted MacLeod uncommonly cheerfully.  
  
"It's afternoon Methos."  
  
"Oh, let's not split hairs. And you sure seem happy to see me," the ancient one remarked, pointing at the knife the Highlander was precariously waving in his direction. "Expecting someone else were you?"  
  
"As a matter of fact I was."  
  
"How many guesses do I get?" he smirked. "Oh-kay then…" he continued, when MacLeod's only response was a violent attack on an innocent carrot. "So what the hell happened? She spent the night, then what? Did you argue?"  
  
"What are you talking about old man? Nobody spent the night here," MacLeod answered, finally looking up from the massacre on his worktop.  
  
Methos' brow became furrowed. "Oh no no no, you see she did. Chloe, I mean…"  
  
"I know who you mean and she wasn't here."  
  
"Well she wasn't at home either! You two were all friendly and snuggly when I left, so I assumed…" The two men were suddenly looking very worried.  
  
"I'm calling Joe," MacLeod exclaimed, abandoning the salad and throwing himself at the phone. Methos beat him to it.  
  
"Get a grip on yourself MacLeod!" he shouted as Mac was trying to wrestle it from him. The Highlander calmed down and took a seat next to Methos, who punched in the number to Joe's bar with more alacrity than it had ever been dialled.  
  
"Pick up the phone, Joe… The plastic thing on your desk that's making the noise…"  
  
"Joe," was announced at the other end of the line three dialling tones later.  
  
"Joe! What took you so long! Listen, have you seen Chloe?"  
  
"Adam? Jeezes, where's the fire?"  
  
"Chloe, Joe! Do you know where she is?"  
  
"No, haven't see her since last night. Did you check with MacLeod? Something tells me she might have spent the night there."  
  
"I'm calling from MacLeod's, she was never here!"  
  
"Oh."  
  
Methos held his breath in the ensuing interval with Mac in his other ear whining to be filled in.  
  
"Then it would seem that we have a problem," Joe continued.  
  
"What? What do you know?" Methos asked breathlessly.  
  
"Well, there was a fight last night. Chloe and a guy named Reyes," Joe started carefully.  
  
"There was a what?! And you didn't think to tell us?"  
  
"Hold your horses, Adam. She won. Reyes' watcher, who is now out of an assignment, called it in this morning."  
  
"And what happened after the fight? Did this watcher see anything?"  
  
"He'd have told me. Besides, he didn't exactly stick around. When there's one immortal dead and another one glowing up, a watcher's job is done."  
  
"Where does he live?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"The watcher, Joe."  
  
"Why do you wanna know?"  
  
"Because I wanna send him a large pizza with extra cheese, what do you think? I'm gonna pay him a visit and see what he knows."  
  
"No need to get snappy! Are you sure that's a good idea? He knows you as Adam the watcher, not Methos the immortal who happens to be Chloe's teacher. What will you say when he asks what your interest in Chloe is?"  
  
"I'll figure something out. Come on Joe, as far as we know he's the last person to have seen Chloe. She may be in trouble…"  
  
"Alright then," Joe sighed. "But you had better figure out a way to keep my name out of it too. I get enough frowns around headquarters as it is… His name is Aaron Burrell. He lives down south on Rudyard Street, number 14, apartment 3A. But you better hurry if you wanna catch him. He's off to headquarters tonight to receive a new assignment."  
  
"Okay, Joe. Thanks. We'll talk to you later."  
  
Methos hung up the phone and turned to MacLeod, who had by this time chewed off his fingernails up to his elbows.  
  
"We're going on a field trip," he announced. "I'll fill you in on the way there."  
  
Ten minutes and numerous rejected plans of action later, they arrived outside a dilapidated-looking apartment building in Rudyard Street.  
  
"The watchers sure know how to treat their people good, don't they," Methos mused aloud, looking up at the front of the building. "Okay, plan W then. I stay out of this one altogether. That's half the questions we won't have to answer. Good luck, Mac."  
  
The Scot made no reply. He hoisted himself out of the car, pulled his coat straight and disappeared inside, wearing his one and only 'there will be no messing with me'-face.  
  
He knocked on the door of apartment 3A. "Just a minute!" a tired voice sounded from within.  
  
Then the door opened. "Could you make this quick, I've got stuff to d… Uh- oh."  
  
The man facing MacLeod was short, something between skinny and athletic in build, late thirties, although he could have been younger - the thick- rimmed glasses in front of his muddy grey eyes made him look dorkier, if not older – and he looked positively scared shitless. Piece of cake, the Scot thought to himself, as he towered over him.  
  
"Afternoon, Aaron. Mind if I ask you a couple of questions concerning a friend of mine?"  
  
It took no time at all, and very little of MacLeod's powers of persuasion, before Aaron Burrell was telling him all about how he saw two black vans pull up, people jump out, shoot a dart into Chloe, load the whole hullabaloo down to Reyes' head into the vans and take off again. "…But that's all I know, I swear," he concluded, perspiring profusely.  
  
"Why didn't you tell Joe about this?" MacLeod enquired, eyeing him up and down.  
  
"Are you kidding? I wasn't gonna tell anyone about it! If those people figure out I was there and I saw them… oh man, who knows what they're gonna do to me!"  
  
"Right." The Highlander had a chuckle despite himself. Note to self, he thought, thank Joe for keeping watchers like Aaron around Seacouver. They make life a hell of a lot easier for all of us. He never even asked any questions. "I'll leave you to it then. Enjoy Paris, it's lovely this time of year."  
  
He let himself out and made his way back to the car.  
  
"Well? What happened? How did you do?" enquired Methos eagerly.  
  
"I'll fill you in at Joe's," the Highlander replied. His mind was busily mulling over what he'd just heard. Chloe abducted along with a headless corpse by people with black outfits, big guns, and black vans with no license plates. Headhunters? Why would they bother with taking Reyes' dead body with them? And why would they tranquillize Chloe instead of taking her head on the spot? A secret agency of some sort? Unless they were connected with the Watchers, how would they know about and what could they want with immortals? A Satanic cult? Aw man, I'm reaching…  
  
He voiced all these vague fears and considerations to Joe and Methos at the bar. They were all sitting down around a table in the back, each man behind a large Scotch.  
  
"And that's really all he knows?" Joe asked after a considerable pause. "No conversations he overheard or something?"  
  
"Nope, that's it. He said they worked like a machine. The job was done in twenty seconds and none of them ever spoke a word."  
  
Methos leaned back, sprawling his limbs all over the place, and threw down his Scotch in one gulp. "I don't like this," he drawled, crumpling his brow. "I don't like this at all."  
  
"Well I sure as hell never heard of a thing like this," Joe admitted. "Whoever these people are, I don't think they'll appreciate us messing with them."  
  
"They messed with us, Joe. Let them know I'm prepared to return the favour." MacLeod gulped down his Scotch and valiantly thunked the empty glass down on the table to emphasize his words. "Come on, let's go!" he added, getting up.  
  
"Where to?" Methos questioned, relinquishing his comfortable position to follow the Scot's example.  
  
"To find Chloe. Anywhere but sitting on our asses."  
  
"We don't exactly have a lot to work with, MacLeod," Methos admonished, shrugging into his coat.  
  
"Oh, let's not split hairs." Then the Highlander was out the door.  
  
"Where did the ants in his pants come from?" Joe asked Methos as an aside.  
  
"Don't you know?" the ancient one responded with a half-hearted chuckle before taking off after MacLeod. "The poor guy is in love with Chloe."  
  
"Well duh…" said Joe to his back. 


	5. Mission Possible

Thank you lovely peoples for your reviews and constructive criticism. I feel invigorated to continue this story. I think (hope, wish) this chapter will be more up to your standards. For your information, it was kinda planned this way all along. I hope I've managed to make it clear that Chloe's easy acceptance of life at Section was in fact a major fault, not a strength. The temptation is indeed great, but she's in my head talking to me right now, and I know for a fact that she's no wonderwoman. Please keep R&R-ing me!! I hunger for it! I'm skipping classes to write this stuff!!  
  
  
  
A small town near Reims, Northern France, late morning. A van with the label of a French gas company pulled up at the front of a large stately house in a quiet neighbourhood. At the same time a large black jeep with tinted windows came to a stop in the alley at the back of the house.  
  
Chloe, perched in the passenger seat of the van next to Michael, was checking if her weapon was properly concealed. They were both dressed in gas company uniforms.  
  
"I can't help but hope I won't need to use this," she remarked.  
  
Michael looked at her. "If you do, don't hesitate."  
  
"Gotcha," she replied, lifting her eyebrows as if saying 'that's easy for you to say'.  
  
"Are your ear-piece and microphone working?" Michael enquired.  
  
"I don't know, are they?"  
  
"We're reading you loud and clear," Birkoff's voice resounded in Chloe's head.  
  
"Ouch! Man, didn't anyone think to put a volume button on these things?" Chloe yelped, clapping her hand over her ear. "I guess that answers your question. They're working."  
  
"Let's go," Michael announced.  
  
They got out of the van and started up the path to the house.  
  
"Do you know what to do?" If Michael was concerned about Chloe's readiness to complete her part of the task at hand, his face didn't betray it.  
  
She simply nodded in response. They arrived at the front door and Chloe rang the door bell.  
  
Footsteps within. A man called: "Qui est-ce?"  
  
"C'est pour le compteur du gaz, monsieur," Chloe answered him in casual sounding French.  
  
The door was opened tentatively to reveal a tall man, late fourties, grey hair cut military style.  
  
"Oui?" He regarded them cautiously. It was Duchamp.  
  
Chloe smiled brightly at him, knowing that a smile is found reassuring and non-threatening by the recipient in any place at any time. "Bonjour monsieur. On peut entrer quelques instants? C'est pour le gaz."  
  
Duchamp did not look altogether unsuspicious, but he stood aside to allow them entry anyhow.  
  
"Merci," Chloe said as she slid past him. "C'est par où?"  
  
He pointed at a door. "En bas. Cette porte-là. »  
  
Michael was behind him. The gun was out of his pocket and pressed firmly into Duchamp's back in the blink of an eye.  
  
"Michael, three hostiles approaching the front door," Birkoff warned.  
  
Michael's reaction was instantaneous. He signalled Chloe to cover Duchamp and spun around to face the new threat. Shots were exchanged and within moments three men lay dead. Michael was not one of them. Meanwhile, Chloe had her gun pointed shakily in Duchamp's general direction. He noticed before she was aware of it that her finger wasn't even on the trigger. He could smell her inexperience and pounced on it. So when Michael turned around again it was to stare into the barrel of Chloe's gun, now in Duchamp's hand, who had his free arm wrapped tightly around her throat. For once, there was an emotion visible on Michael's face: disappointment.  
  
Before either of them had a chance to act on the situation, a muffled 'oomph' escaped Duchamp's lips. His arm released its strangle hold on Chloe and he slumped to the floor, a small dart embedded in the back of his neck.  
  
"Getting him out of here would have been so much easier if I hadn't had to do that," Nikita said, putting the tranquillizer gun back in its holster.  
  
Another operative, who had entered the house through the back with Nikita, stepped forward to haul Duchamp's unconscious body onto his shoulders.  
  
"Michael? Nikita? What's going on?" they heard Operations ask.  
  
"Situation is under control," Michael answered. "Advise on extraction route."  
  
"Through the back," Birkoff said. "Five or six hostiles approaching with handguns on that side, but the front is covered by snipers."  
  
His words were emphasized by the sound of gunshots from the back of the house. They hurried into a spacious kitchen to see Davenport and an other operative engaged in a fire-fight in the backyard. Michael and Nikita rushed to the back door to aid them, followed by the man who was carrying Duchamp, and Chloe.  
  
Suddenly a small form dashed out from underneath the kitchen table and launched itself at Chloe, tiny fists pounding.  
  
"Mon papa, mon papa! T'as fait mal a mon papa ! » the girl shrieked.  
  
Chloe backed off, tried to push her away without hurting her. She ran the last few metres to the door, hoping to lose her small pursuer, but the girl flew past her and straight at Davenport who was at the back door, covering the others' retreat.  
  
She reached him just as the last of the hostile agents fell lifeless to the ground. Davenport, spooked by this perceived new source of danger, spun and fired.  
  
The girl stopped in her tracks as if she'd hit a brick wall. Not another sound escaped her throat, while she, in turn, dropped down into a small blood-stained heap. Like unsorted laundry with feet sticking out, Chloe thought in shock and disbelief, as she knelt next to the girl and started stroking her hair, not really conscious of what she was doing.  
  
"Davenport… what is happening?" Operations queried. Davenport filled him in on the situation, looking down on Chloe and the dead girl, in a minimum amount of words.  
  
"Cancel her," Operations ordered, as cold as an iceberg in the Arctic.  
  
"Sir?" Davenport hesitated.  
  
"Cancel her, she's had her chance," Operations repeated.  
  
Davenport was a man of few words and little willingness to defy orders. "I'm sorry," he said, rather uselessly, as Chloe wasn't hearing his words anyway, and pointed his gun with only one bullet left in it straight at her heart. At least he could make it quick and painless, he thought. He had liked her. Operations' yet again repeated order, "Do it!", removed all doubt and hesitation from his mind, and he pulled the trigger. Then he ran as fast as his legs could carry him to the jeep that stood waiting. Everyone inside it had already heard the 'conversation' between Davenport and Operations, and the last gunshot. There were no questions, no answers, and no tears, just as they'd been taught.  
  
The bullet, shot at such close range, had passed right through her, and Chloe revived mere minutes later. Her quickening, though young, was strong. She awoke to a sight she'd hoped to have left behind forever: a girl, maybe eight or nine years old, with a broken body and broken eyes, staring up at a cruel sky. She cried then, with salty tears in deep gut-wrenching sobs. She cried as much for an innocent life pointlessly lost, as for herself. Her desillusionment. She had now, for the first time, seen what Section was truly about. And it was not about trying to tick off Michael while he was speaking to her in French and teaching her things she already knew on the practice mat; it was not about Nikita trying to be a big sister to her; it was not about starting food fights with Walter; and it was not about horsing around with Birkoff, playing computer games behind Operations' back. The truth was hard, and brutal, and merciless, and it broke her down into a heap almost as small as the girl next to her.  
  
Then a voice got through to her, shouting something she couldn't understand. But she knew it was bad news. She scrambled to her feet and ran, fast, faster. It was only when she stopped that her thoughts could catch up.  
  
Birkoff sat numb, staring into the space in front of him. Not the computer screen, but something beyond. He was recalling the face he'd loved so well, and would now never get to love again. He sat like this for what seemed like an eternity, never aware of Operations walking away with his hands in his pockets. He actually couldn't believe his own ears when Chloe shouted through the uplink: "Turn that fucking transport around, immediately!"  
  
Operations was back, 'faster than a speeding bullet'.  
  
"Who is this?"  
  
"It's Chloe, you jackass!"  
  
If there was such an expression as a mix between baffled, perturbed and utterly flabbergasted, that's what one would have seen evident on Operations' face.  
  
"That's impossible," he said to no one in particular.  
  
Birkoff was slightly more optimistic about the situation than that, as he relayed Chloe's request to the people in the van: "Turn around! Turn around! She's alive!!"  
  
Chloe and the van encountered one another somewhere at least a few miles from the place where everything had happened.  
  
She threw herself in through the opened door and went to sit in a corner, clutching her chest, with everyone staring at her like Neanderthals at a UFO, especially Davenport.  
  
"Jeezes," he muttered, "jeezes, this can't be. You were dead."  
  
"Does it look like I was dead? You're a lousy shot, asshole, and that's all there is to it!" she retorted aggressively.  
  
Davenport just shook his head and went into incredulous-and-knowing-it mood. Nikita was the first to dare to approach her.  
  
"Were you hurt? Let me see."  
  
"No I wasn't hurt. Like I said, he's a fucking lousy shot. I wasn't hurt…"  
  
As quickly as they'd dissipated, the tears came again.  
  
"God, why? I don't understand… If this is what you people do, I never ever wanna be a part of it…"  
  
"Hush," Nikita tried to shush her. It had the opposite effect.  
  
"No I will not hush! Who do you think you are anyway?! You're always nagging me about being irresponsible, and so are you, Michael, about making an ass of myself all the time. Well if that's what constitutes a child, I'm not the one."  
  
"What do you mean?" Nikita asked, while her mind was trying to stretch as far as understanding.  
  
"You people do atrocious, horrible things; things that are nowhere near righteous and heroic!" If it was possible with a mouth as dry as hers, she spat the words out instead of speaking them. "And meanwhile you get to make the easiest excuse in the history of easy excuses: someone else told me, or taught me," she glared ferociously at Davenport, who took no notice, "to do it. You make me sick."  
  
Her point gotten across, she kept quiet. And the rest of the journey back to Section 1 was spent this way, no one having the energy or the courage to argue ethics, however foremost it was on everyone's minds.  
  
Though no one cared to notice it, Chloe least of all, a major step had just been taken in her own personal journey toward not-a-child-anymore-ness. She had taken a glimpse into what it was to be in someone else's shoes. She had shared a child's death, all be it briefly. She had felt remorse in the stead of the one who should have felt it. She had, in one traumatizing experience, grasped the full meaning of the elusive term 'responsibility', an idea certain people hundreds of times her age were still not getting. And she had realized that the world wasn't, and never had been, all about her and the act she was choosing to play.  
  
  
  
  
  
If you would appreciate an answer to your reviews (and I promise, I will answer anything!!) you may cheerfully send your comments to: cahoovytina@hotmail.com 


	6. Revelations and rock bottoms

"They're back," Birkoff announced. He couldn't recall often having been so relieved that everyone had made it back alive.  
  
The North gate opened, with the mission team on one side, and Operations on the other. His eyes immediately sought Chloe. She was in the back, hiding behind the others, arms still folded rigidly across her chest as they'd been all the way from France. Three operatives stepped forward to lead the now awakened valuable prisoner away to an interrogation chamber, while Chloe braced herself for an interrogation of her own.  
  
"Chloe, step forward," Operations commanded. She obeyed. "Move your arms."  
  
She glared at him defiantly, … and did as ordered. Michael, Nikita and Davenport, still gathered there, joined Operations in gawking at the tiny hole and blood-stained patch in the front of her uniform. She'd been dead almost instantly, there had been little bleeding. The same thing was of course also visible on her back, but nobody had thought to look there and she'd kept her back well turned away from them.  
  
They looked back up at her face almost simultaneously. Four gaping jaws, eight incredulous eyes. It was a long time before anyone spoke, and it was Nikita who did: "What are you?"  
  
Of all the things Chloe could have done, she chose to laugh. Not hysterically, not mockingly, nothing more than a curling of lips and a low mirthless rumbling in her throat. "Can't you figure that out for yourself? I was shot, I'm not dead. I can't die. There's a word for that sort of thing: immortal. That's what I am."  
  
"But how?" Nikita asked again.  
  
"I don't know. I don't know how, or why. I just know that's how it is." It was the truth, not even a lie of omission. However many rules there were to govern the goings-on in the world of immortals, they presented only questions, not answers.  
  
"I'm going to take a shower now," Chloe announced, "and don't even think about stopping me!" she added, shoving her finger into Operations' face. Then she trotted off to try and gather her wits about her, leaving the others to fester in it.  
  
'What am I gonna do? What am I gonna tell them? I should have seen this coming… Bollocks! If only Methos was here…' her thoughts taunted her. There weren't many precautions she could have taken, but giving the possibility of this situation presenting itself some thought would have done no harm. She hadn't, and wanted to kick herself for it now. Trying to actually do so, she stumbled into her room. She started to peel off her clothes, wincing when the dried blood tore away from her skin, and dumped everything in a pile in the middle of the room. It struck her immediately what that pile looked like, and it took her all of five minutes to tear her eyes away from the sight.  
  
"Oh for Christ's sake, get a grip!" she exclaimed, stomping into the bathroom and wishing there was a door dividing that from the bedroom so she could slam it.  
  
The shower was scalding hot and lasted a full half hour and she came out feeling refreshed and a little less 'out there'.  
  
Just as the remains of a comforting Lucky Strike were being crushed into the bottom of the ashtray, Operations' voice croaked through the intercom: "Chloe, in my office, right away."  
  
"Where's that magic word?" she muttered, but made haste anyhow.  
  
She stood in front of him half a minute later. Her red hair was for once well-behaved, combed down to curl slightly in the nape of her neck, still wet from the shower. Green shades (as that was the colour of the day) enhanced more than hid the piercing greenness of her eyes as she stood nervously enduring Operations' meticulously examining gaze.  
  
"Why did you come back?" he chose to break the silence with.  
  
"Huh?" Somehow, that wasn't the first question she had expected.  
  
"We thought you were dead. You could have made a run for it."  
  
"Ha!" Chloe snorted. "And where would I have run to? I had half of Red Cell on my heels. If they'd caught me, and they were more likely to do so than not, that would have been trouble for me and for Section. Big trouble. How long can one sustain any kind of torture if the only escape from it is to die, and… well… Just be glad I didn't try."  
  
"Indeed. Ironically, that's not a very desirable quality in an operative. We need to know you can eliminate yourself if jeopardized."  
  
Chloe, only just beginning to realize the true nature of Section, was still shocked at hearing him state this so matter-of-factly. But she saw her chance to take a stand.  
  
"Then let me go. I never fucking asked to be here, so if you don't want me cut me loose!"  
  
Operations grinned evilly. "No. We can still use you. But first you'll explain to me exactly what you are, what you can do, and how."  
  
Chloe saw a glint of uncertainty and – was it really? – fear in Operations' eyes. She considered that maybe he was suspecting not dying was not the only thing she could do.  
  
"I told you everything already," she replied, looking away and making her voice sound as unconvincing as possible. 'Keep them guessing, that's what Methos would do,' she told herself.  
  
"Fine, if that's the way you want it. You will report to Medical to submit to a series of examinations, first thing in the morning," Operations exclaimed in a sudden fit of frustration.  
  
"Very well sir," Chloe smiled benevolently, then turned and walked seemingly confidently out of the office. 'Keep them guessing, keep them guessing…'  
  
Operations sighed and turned around to face Madeline, who had stalked in through a different entrance and was not looking much more cool-headed than he.  
  
"What is she?" he sighed again.  
  
Madeline kept silent.  
  
"What are we going to do with her? If these examinations do reveal her to be… 'immortal' – I can't believe I just said that as if it's actually possible – how are we going to control her?"  
  
"We will need some kind of leverage."  
  
"Obviously," Operations replied, vigorously ruffling his hair with both hands, "but what?"  
  
Madeline looked relieved. This was familiar territory. "I'll look into it."  
  
Meanwhile Chloe had hurried back to her room to fetch the object of her oral fixation and subsequently scampered up to the roof of the compound. There was only one way to get up there, only to be used in cases of extreme emergency. In her mind, this qualified. She had just lit up a smoke and inhaled deeply when Nikita appeared at her elbow.  
  
"Mind if I take a seat?" she asked.  
  
"Be my guest," was the response, accompanied by a cloud of smoke.  
  
Nikita eased herself down next to Chloe who, even under the circumstances, couldn't help but feel envious at the graceful way in which she did this. They sat together in silence, each minute stretching as wide as the city they saw in the waning light before them. Chloe noticed after a while that Nikita was staring at her almost finished cigarette.  
  
"You're not going to give me the don't-smoke-those-they'll-kill-you speech again, are you?"  
  
Nikita smiled against her will. "I still don't like to see you do it, but I guess I know better now than to use their deadliness as an argument."  
  
"So you want to know the real deal of things?" Chloe asked after an awkward pause.  
  
"Yes…" Nikita replied hesitantly.  
  
"Okay, give me your knife."  
  
"What?"  
  
"The pocket knife. Let me guess it's in your boot today? You never go anywhere without it."  
  
Nikita pulled an elegant little stiletto out of the shaft of her boot and handed it carefully to Chloe, as if that very action would produce incomprehensible revelations. In any less grave a mood, Chloe would have snickered. She opened the stiletto, fluently drew the blade across the palm of her left hand and held it in front of Nikita so she could watch it heal.  
  
The tiny blue sparks danced across the gap in the skin and sealed it. Nikita said nothing.  
  
"I saw Adam do that once. I didn't think it would hurt so much," Chloe said, wiping the blood off. Nikita still said nothing. "Adam is a friend of mine. My teacher actually, after Duncan had to get out of the States for a while. Both of them are like me, immortal. We won't die from any wound, even a normally fatal one, well not permanently anyway. We don't age either. I'm 24 now, but I still look 19, cause that's the age I was when I first died. Adam and Duncan are both much, much older than any mortal."  
  
Chloe had told a much simplified version of the tale, mostly so as not to overload Nikita's circuits with spacy and rather unnecessary info, but also because she was not willing to disclose to anyone at Section the one thing that could kill her. Methos' hypothetical words 'keep them guessing' still rang loud and clear in her mind, along with an other tidbit of advice she thought would be right up his alley: 'trust no one'. That was not an easy piece of advice for Chloe to follow. Allowing no one to share in the full depth of her secret would mean she had to carry the burden all by herself, a thing she'd never had to do before, and she was now more than ever doubting her own strength to do so.  
  
Nikita finally spoke an eternity later. "I'm glad."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I've been at Section for so long, I hardly care about my own life anymore. My greatest fear is to lose someone who's dear to me. I'm glad I don't have to worry about losing you."  
  
Chloe's only response was a comforting arm around Nikita's shoulder.  
  
An other lesson had just been learned: however tough a time you're having, to find solace in the knowledge that someone else's life has just been made a little easier.  
  
Medical, the next morning.  
  
"I take it you were expecting me?"  
  
The middle-aged, goggle-eyed man in a white coat spun around. "Don't sneak up on people like that," he rasped.  
  
'Jeezes, doesn't everyone suddenly have the jitters around here,' Chloe thought. Birkoff, finally realizing that something fishy was going on with his shade-matched friend, had looked at her like a chicken at a thunderstorm when she went to hug him that morning. Michael had actually gone spastic for a split second when she greeted him with a pat on the back. Insignificant though she kept telling herself these instances were, they still hurt. She was the odd one out all over again.  
  
"Right, let's get started then," the doctor growled. He led her into an examination chamber. Chloe, who up till then hadn't been too worried about the med exam, swallowed audibly at the sight of the array of medieval-meets- high-tech torture equipment there assembled.  
  
"You're not actually thinking of using that shit on me are you?" she squeaked. 'Oh great, this jut keeps getting better and better, now they've got me locked in a room with Jack the Ripper!' she added mentally.  
  
The doctor served her a grin of pure wickedness, pointed a gun at her chest and fired.  
  
Chloe found herself waking up sprawled butt-naked on the examination table, still staring into the same unnerving grin. She sat up with a start and tried to cover herself. The amount of blood smeared all over her body told her that she'd been shot and stabbed in at least half a dozen other places, and the grogginess in her head indicated that a drug of some sort had also been used.  
  
"Amazing," Jack the Ripper smirked. "Never seen anything like it."  
  
"Trust me pal, you never will again either!" Chloe cried, deliberately misinterpreting his comment, and dodged off the table and to her clothes in a corner. He let her.  
  
She pulled on the clothes that mercilessly clung to her due to the blood, and snuck to the relative safety of her room as quickly as she could. There, she pulled them off again and crept into the shower where she sank to the floor and stayed, crying and writhing, for over an hour.  
  
Rock bottom already achieved, she cried mostly over not knowing how to get out of it again. She longed more than ever for Methos' guidance, Joe's well- meant mockery and Duncan's affection. She felt she'd made one 'biggest mistake of her life' after another, starting the night she'd been so harsh to Duncan. She could think of no better place to be at that moment than in his arms, hearing him say that all was forgiven and he'd take care of her. But no, she thought, that's not the way it works. This was something she'd have to do well and truly by herself. 


	7. A soliloquy and good times

Author's notes: Ty for your review Obsidian. You make valid points, of course, on both accounts. But bear with me, I was getting to that. Chloe is young, inexperienced and will most certainly do stupid things once in a blue moon (exhibit A: almost everything she's done so far). The learn-from- your-own-dumb-ass-mistakes thing is only just catching on with her. We've all been (or still are) teenagers, we know how it goes… Chloe's story is not about doing the right thing and making the smart choice, it's about 'learning' to do so. I'll stop ranting now and get on with the show…  
  
  
  
Chloe scrambled to her feet and stalked out of the shower stall, eyes red- swollen, head hanging low. Neglecting to towel off, she positioned herself in front of the mirror. It took her a while to dare to look at her own image, and she suppressed the urge to laugh at it when she finally did.  
  
"Alright, let's talk some sense into me," she muttered.  
  
"Methos, my man, you would not be proud of me, would you? 'Trust no one', I could hear you say it as clearly as if you were standing right next to me, and still I walk right into Jack the Ripper's lair. What did they do to me? How much do they know? Fucking hell…  
  
Let's recap for a sec. Bloody Reyes, he's what jump-started this whole mess. I played the whole thing by the book, and still somehow I end up getting screwed over. I shouldn't have stuck around, I was a sitting duck.  
  
Next thing I know, Operations has me in his claws. Operative, my ass. I'm not cut out for this line of work, why couldn't he see that? Nah, I'm meat for the grinder, that's all I need to be around here. He knew I'd fuck things up somehow. Perfect way to get rid of me, he musta thought. And he was right too. All I could do was mope and moan about pyjamas and cigs, play around and rub everyone the wrong way. I never once took any of this seriously. I never opened my eyes to have a good look around. Fuck, I can only guess how pissed he's been at me at times. Can't believe how patient Nikita and Michael and all of 'em have been with me.  
  
But surprise, surprise. The little walking disaster just won't die.  
  
I had no idea what I was doing with Duchamp. The way he was looking at me, I just froze up. I'll bet if someone had lit a bonfire under my ass I wouldn't have noticed. But I didn't freeze up when I was fighting Reyes did I? Why? Coz he was a bad guy. He'd have chopped my stupid little head off if I hadn't beaten him to it. He wouldn't have shown me any mercy, so why should I, right? But Duchamp was unarmed. A lamb to the slaughter couldn't have looked more innocent. Hell, I couldn't hurt a fly. As long as it didn't have a Kolashnikov pointed at me, that is. Things aren't always what they seem to be, are they? Every lamb has its dirty little secrets.  
  
Thank god for Nikita's quick thinking back there. If Duchamp had shot Michael, it would all have been my fault. And still I hadn't learned my lesson. I knew some guys were killing each other out there, and I ran straight into it with that little girl on my heels. I should have known she'd get hurt. I should have known better. Davenport, he didn't know any better either. He was trained to be an idiot with a gun. Shoot first ask questions later. Not his fault.  
  
And then he shot me. I didn't even realize it. That bullet could have come from anywhere. When I woke up I just ran. Survival instincts, amazing invention. Fuck it, and then I made yet another mistake. What else is new? What's a girl to do, ay? I had no idea where to go and I was feeling Red Cell's hot breath in my neck. I had to get out of there, didn't I? So I hitched a ride home with the very fucker who'd 'cancelled' me in the first place. I actually thought they'd just left without me. Until I saw their faces. Then I knew. Just a tad too late, wasn't it?  
  
I was glad Nikita came to talk to me. I didn't think she would. But who else around here am I gonna share any of this with? Not Birkoff. I love the kid to death, but it's better if he knows as little as possible. There's a lot he can handle, but not this. Not Michael either. See, I might actually like the other person to say something back, make me feel better somehow, instead of drill holes in me by just looking at me. And not Walter either. That guy is loads of fun, like the bandana'd grandpa I never had, but I wouldn't trust him with information about my shoe size.  
  
So that leaves big sis Nikita. It might as well be her. Little does she know either Duncan or Methos might be teaching her one day.  
  
Intimacy schmintimacy, right Duncan? Well I do need that shit. Especially right now. And it all starts with trusting someone all the way. Which I'm not supposed to do. Yet. And that leaves us right back where we started from."  
  
Chloe sighed deeply and moved away from the obliging mirror. She reached for a towel, then realized she was by this time already bone dry, and put it back. A few seconds later, she heard the door in the bedroom whiz open and someone enter. She hurriedly grabbed the towel anyway and flung it around her body.  
  
"For crying out loud, I demand a doorbell installed asap… oh." It was Birkoff who stood facing her with as worried an expression as she'd ever seen from him.  
  
"Are you okay?" he started awkwardly.  
  
"Am I okay?" she repeated, confused.  
  
"I saw you, 'bout an hour ago. You were… there was…"  
  
"Oh. Blood?" she finished his sentence, raising her eyebrows in understanding.  
  
"Yeah…" he said shyly, meticulously studying the toes of his shoes. The towel was barely covering the essential parts of Chloe's slender anatomy.  
  
"Honey, don't worry about that. It was nothing, okay, nobody hurt me," she explained, walking towards him. It was true. She hadn't felt any pain. Birkoff backed away as she approached him. Looking aside, he noticed the discarded heap of bloodied clothes.  
  
"What's that then?" he queried, eyeing Chloe accusingly.  
  
"Ugh." She only just kept from rolling her eyes.  
  
"Chloe, what's going on?"  
  
Instead of answering, she walked over to the bed and fished her cigarettes out from underneath it. "You want one?"  
  
"No, I don't smoke. Tell me what's going on!" he repeated.  
  
Chloe sat down on the bed, taking care to keep the towel wrapped tightly around her, lit a smoke and drew on it, and rested her head in her hands. Birkoff, overcoming his shyness, sat next to her and lightly patted her shoulder.  
  
"There are some things you're really better off not knowing," she said, not shifting her position.  
  
"But if you don't tell me, how can I help you?" he said with a tight voice.  
  
Chloe could hear that he was close to tears and looked up.  
  
"Oh no, you don't!" she admonished, moving in to hug him. "There have been enough tears in this room to last us all a century."  
  
They locked arms around each other, but neither cried. It just didn't seem necessary anymore. After a few minutes it was Chloe who broke the embrace.  
  
"You know Birkie, you just helped me already."  
  
"I did?" he asked eagerly.  
  
"Yeah. Just be my friend, and don't ask anymore. Can you do that?"  
  
He nodded, and smiled bravely.  
  
"Thank you," she said, and she gave him a peck on the cheek before getting up to go and put on some clothes.  
  
They ended up sneaking back to Birkoff's room, where he had a beauty of a computer system set up. They played games, and listened to downloads of their favourite songs, including 'their song', to which they sang along with grand gestures, melancholy voices and muffled laughs. "I look straight in the window, try not to look below. Pretend I'm not up here, I try counting sheep…" It was their song because it was about being scared and trying to ignore that fact. It was how they both felt around Section most of the time. Today, the song sounded different somehow. The bizarre-o lyrics were making more sense than usual.  
  
Chloe was having a good time, 'against all odds', she thought grimly. But there really was something more to it this time. Hiding with Birkoff wasn't just hiding away from everything anymore. The lines between 'out there' and 'in here' weren't as clear as they once had been. She was beginning to see things in a different perspective. And it felt good. Or better anyway. Her world was starting to fade from black and white into shades of grey, and blue on this particular day. And grey is softer than black or white, less sharp and pre-defined, easier to handle.  
  
So when they were heading for the mess hall for lunch, Chloe was walking behind Birkoff in no hurry, smiling softly to herself. It wasn't all good, but it was a little better.  
  
  
  
  
  
Author's notes: Yup here I am again… This time just to let you that 'Birkoff and Chloe's song' is in fact "If I should fall" by the Barenaked Ladies. Check it out, you'll love it. I sure did. I don't know if what I said about its meaning is true. I took the liberty of interpreting in Birkoff and Chloe's stead. Isn't that what you're supposed to do with songs? 


End file.
